a King’s Christmas.

King did not like Christmas.

No, that would be dressing it up far too nicely. He fucking hated Christmas. The unending blanket of snow for miles and miles, the fresh pine smell of Christmas trees in his nostrils, and one could not forget those goddamn gingerbread cookies. Fucking gingerbread. God, he loathed the very mention of the season, dreaded the sight of the first falling leaves.

Fall heralded the coming of winter and winter always brought with it the cold chill of his past.

Just two years ago, King had been living the good life. A life Kanye West himself would be envious of. He’d had a mother who, aside from her annoying, overbearing tendencies and occasional bitch fits, loved him and almost everything other young men his age only dreamt of. Car, check. Rent free house, check. Free groceries and a maid, check check.

What the hell kind of idiot wouldn’t be content with all that?

“Clearly an idiot like you,” he grumbled under his breath. Or so he thought.

“What’d you say there, pretty boy?”

King looked up at the mountain of a man who’d somehow managed to get right up in his grill while he’d been lost in dream land. Probably not the best course of action when one was sitting in central holding with all manner of lawbreakers, but King never claimed to be the brightest light bulb.

Apparently this precinct didn’t believe in separating minor offenses and first time offenders from the less friendly riff-raff. His mother sure paid a lot of state taxes. If they weren’t going toward making his occasional jail visits more pleasant, then where the hell was it going?

“N-no-nothing,” he finally managed to spit out. It was an admittedly weak response, but through the cocktail of cheap alcohol and even cheaper tree he’d smoked, his mind was not capable of a more complex retort. He cleared the little bitch in his throat to make room for the man before speaking again, hoping he didn’t sound as worried as he was. “Thinking out loud, sir.”

The tattooed behemoth seemed to accept the half-assed apology, but not before he giving King an extremely long and completely unnerving up and down with lust filled eyes. As if sex were anywhere near his list of priorities right now. And even if it were, it wouldn’t be with a man that reeked of stale cigars and looked like he did not know what “No” meant.

“You have a pretty little mouth,” A slow, lusty smirk that revealed teeth should belong to a pirate. “Keep thinking aloud and the boys and I’ll put those pretty lips of yours to good use for the night.”

Self-preservation would have kept any other guy’s mouth tightly sealed as the inmate turned to leave, but King had never been normal or the type to let an insult slide. Not from his mother, not from his father when he’d been alive, and certainly not some reject from the Last House on the Left.

“Like hell you will.” And wasn’t that a fucking mistake.

The hulk-man whirled around shockingly fasted and locked one meaty hands around King’s throat before he could so much as flinch, pinning the smaller man to the prison cot with his body weight. King’s hands came up immediately, scrambling for something to hold on to, to escape. It was no use, those hands locked like a snake around his throat, constricting airflow. Damn, the fucker was strong.

In the movies, this was around the time the inmates started causing an uproar, which in turn drew the attention of the guards. Guards who would come and break up this little attempt on King’s precious life. At least, that was how it worked in all the movies he had seen. Apparently in the real world, those very same underpaid civil servants were in their sorry excuse for a break room. How oh so very fortunate for him that he should die while the guards were away drinking cold, dollar store coffee out of Styrofoam cups.

“Should have kept your mouth shut, little boy,”

The smell of booze and onions blasted King in the face as the creep leaned down until they were nearly nose to nose. King’s body locked up immediately, memories from his past bubbling to the surface. His throat tightened even as the grip loosened. A cold sweat broke out, his face perspiring as the brute rubbed King’s chest through his shirt with his free hand.

Something hard pushed against King’s thigh and, though he couldn’t see, he knew exactly what it was. Bile rose in the back of his throat, his stomach heaving in violent rejection of what was about to happen if he didn’t man the fuck up.

That hand slid lower, stopping just at King’s waistline to snake underneath his shirt. The feel of those balmy, fat fingers on his naked flesh almost caused him to retch right then and there. He didn’t care if it got all over his Versace sweater- money could buy more shirts, but it couldn’t buy his dignity back if he lost it to this bottom feeder.

Wiggling just enough to give his arms some room to maneuver, King laid his fingers on the sweaty, belly partially exposed by a shirt that was clearly to small. Though it had been more than a year since he’d last done it, he was hoping his little trick would work right now. Liquor usually crippled it, but it was better to try and fail, than not to try at all and just lie there and take it.

A button coming undone, the sound of a zipper.

King closed his eyes and forced himself to filter everything else out. The stench of liquor vanished, the heavy weight of another man astride him lifting, the sounds of labored breathing silenced in a moments time. Warmth spread through him, the tell-tell sign that his trick was working, and King went to work.

“You don’t want to do this,” King said, the words no less commanding for that they were spoken calmly.

The male trying to rape him looked up then, a look of completely bewilderment on his aged face, a combination of drunkeness and King forcing his will onto the other male. That was usually what happened when King “pushed” someone- minor resistance, followed by compliance and then confusion. In this case, there was no resistance, the no doubt illegal amount of liquor in the man’s bloodstream circumventing any kind of mental fortitude he may have had.

“I don’t?” A confused look around before he looked down at King. “I don’t. I don’t want to do this, do I?”

King sent up a silent prayer to God, thanking him for small favors. “No, you don’t. In fact, you never want to ever have sex again. Ever. The very thought of it will make you sick. Do you understand me?” It was only fair, right? The male was certainly going to rape King and he wouldn’t shrink at doing it to someone else. This was practically community service or something, right?

The jerk rolled off of King then, scrambling to stuff his engorged manhood back into his dirty trousers with remarkable speed. Thankfully, no one else was present in the cell and the guards still hadn’t come by on their usual rounds. It was embarrassing enough that he’d had that disgusting appendage on his designer jeans- if anyone had witnessed it, he’d absolutely die.

Of course, King was more concerned with making sure no one had seen him use his trick.

“What am I doing?”

And wasn’t that a good question? King sat up on the cot and tried not to curl his lip in revulsion at the man before him as he considered punishment. Telling the guards would accomplish nothing- the could care less what happened to those they put behind these bars. No, retribution was lain at King’s feet and his feet alone.

“You want out of this cage?” A jerky nod from a head far too small for the body is sat on. “Good,” King said with a slow smile. “Then leave. Claw your way out or whatever, just don’t stop.”

King turned over on the cot content as the man went to the far wall and began clawing at the concrete with his fingernails. It was the season for giving after all. His gift was a cruel thing, especially the way in which he used it, but King couldn’t bring himself to give a fuck.

The world was a cruel place- why shouldn’t he be cruel too?
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